


Dark Magic

by Shamelessly_Radiant



Series: LJ Prompt table challenge [4]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Brief Hermione/Viktor, F/M, I really enjoyed writing this though, Oh god, Some non-explicit violence, another tomione DADA professor AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:19:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shamelessly_Radiant/pseuds/Shamelessly_Radiant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Would you like to learn it, then?" he asks, his dark eyes appraising her.' Professor Riddle makes Hermione Granger an offer she cannot refuse. And just like that, her life is about to change-irrevocably. part of LJ prompt series. Tomione.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Magic

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Back from never gone! Just super, super busy with life in general. Funny because I really don’t do that much. Anyways, this one-shot has been laying around for months, so I’m going to share it.
> 
> This was written for the prompt: magic, and betaed by the wonderful WickedIntentions.
> 
> As always, if you enjoy please review!

Hogwarts was supposed to be her _new beginning._

Her chance to start all over again.

It turns out that you cannot outrun yourself.

And so—

Hermione is utterly alone.

No one likes her—just like they didn’t when she still was in the muggle world—and they only talk to her when they need help with their homework.

They roll their eyes when she raises her hand in class, and she knows they talk about her behind her back.

By day, she seeks companionship in her books, tries to escape her loneliness by reading everything she can get her hands on.

At night, the only proof of it is the dampness on her pillow and the tear tracks on her cheeks.

**_._ **

“Filthy little mudblood,” the pale blond boy snarls at her.

Reflexively, she clutches her book tighter to her chest because, while she does not know the word, she understands the tone, the expression, and knows it can’t be anything good.

Really, her first year was filled with Gryffindors who hated her, and now, in her second year, she is to get remarks from _other_ houses, too?

“Get out of my wa—” he starts speaking again but is interrupted by a much heavier voice.

“—Mr. Malfoy! Twenty points from Slytherin for rudeness and the use of such vocabulary.”

Malfoy’s eyes widen, and he whirls around. There is a young man standing there, and Hermione frowns, not recognizing him from anywhere.

“Professor!”

“Don’t make me take another twenty, Malfoy,” the man threatens. “Run along now.”

The boy leaves with a stormy expression. Hermione swallows away the bile in her throat and looks up at the teacher, who is now running a hand through his dark hair as he tracks Malfoy with his eyes until blond hair disappears around the corner.

He then turns to her, and Hermione looks away, startled.

Frowning, he asks, “Are you all right, Miss…?”

“Granger, sir,” she responds softly, “Hermione Granger. And, yes, I’m fine.”

She smiles stupidly, closes her eyes, and opens them again. She gives a firm nod as if to convince herself. She feels like laughing and hopes he will go away soon so she can just _sag_ against the wall and _cry_ —

A gentle hands lands on her shoulder.

“Come, Miss Granger,” he says. “My office is just around the corner. Let me offer you a cup of tea.”

Hermione hesitates before nodding shakily. She hoists her bag higher on her shoulder and lets herself be led away.

“I have not yet had the pleasure of teaching Gryffindors,” he explains as he opens a door for her, “so that’s why I did not know you. I think I have you on… Thursday? Maybe Friday.”

“So, you’re the new Defence professor?” she asks as she takes in his office. It’s very neat, very organized. Light comes in from the big window across the door, illuminating a big mahogany desk, upon which lies a big stack of parchment, two books, and a black quill dipped into red ink. There is a filing cabinet against the right wall, Hermione registers with mild surprise, a concept she thought to be entirely muggle. Her parents have one like it in their dentistry practice. Next to it is a little table with a tea set, but what mostly gets her attention is the left wall.

It’s filled with shelves and books, books, books—

“Indeed. I am Professor Riddle,” he says from behind her, and she registers that she’s still standing in the doorway.

“Sorry.” Hermione blushes, stepping inside. She gestures at the books. “May I?”

“Be my guest.” He nods and moves to the table by the left wall to fix the tea.

She puts down her bag next to the chair in front of his desk, leaving the book she’s holding on top of it, and then she rushes to the bookcase. Holding her hands behind her back to prevent herself from just _reading_ everything, she starts scanning the titles. It’s refreshing, really. He has novels, both wizard _and_ muggle, including Shakespeare, practical applications, Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Care for Magical Creatures, Astronomy, and Runes—but also muggle math and science and even a book or two which combine them. He has history about both worlds, books in French, German, and—is that _Mermish?_ He has books on more obscure subjects, she notes, such as mind reading and darker potions, but nothing too dark, and—

She wants them all.

“How do you like your tea?” he asks, and she half-turns, not looking at him, anxious to drink in as many titles as she can. Before she is able to answer, he speaks again. “You _are_ a first year, are you not?”

She turns completely. “Second, actually. Why?”

“Ah, second year. Still, this is quite advanced magic, Miss Granger,” he states, holding up the thick tome Hermione had checked out from the library earlier. “And you are reading the _second_ volume already,” he adds drily, arching one eyebrow in an odd demonstration of facial control.

Hermione shrugs, fiddling with her hands. At last, she answers, “It’s not like I have much to do, anyway.”

He regards her for a moment. “Come, sit. The tea is getting cold.”

But, as she crosses the office to his desk, he moves around it to pull a book from the third shelf on the left. She identifies it as the first volume of the book she’s reading. The golden title reads: _The Fine Arts of Magic: Advanced Transfiguration, I._

Walking back to his desk, he sifts through the book. She drinks her tea and observes him, curious. Eventually, he sits down, too. He adds a sugar cube to his tea, takes a sip, and then peers at the girl sitting in front of him.

“You read this whole book?”

She nods.

“And you understood everything?”

She frowns. “Well, there were a couple of concepts that I found quite vague in the last three chapters, and other books were not helpful, either.”

“Well, since the books handle Conjuration and Untransfiguration—which are N.E.W.T.-level subjects—I find it highly impressive that you managed to understand even the first chapter.”

“Yes, well, I’ve only been reading the theory, not the practical aspects.”

He chuckles at her petulant tone. There’s a lapse of silence then. He seems immersed in thought, and she just sips her tea. Somehow, the silence is not unpleasant, in Hermione’s opinion.

They speak at the same time:

“Thank you fo—”

“Would you li—”

“I’m sorry. What was that, Professor?” Hermione asks after a beat.

“Would you like to learn it, then?” he asks, his dark eyes appraising her.

“Yes, of course! But Professor McGonagall said that I should not be concerning myself with something _that difficult_ before learning the basics, even though I already managed all of the spells in _A Guide to Transfiguration._ ”

“Well… maybe _I_ could teach you,” he suggests, finishing his tea.

“But I thought you taught Defence Against the Dark Arts, Professor,” she responds, confused.

“I assure you, Miss Granger,” he smiles at her, “I am fully qualified in all of the other subjects, as well… though, perhaps not Potions...”

The last part he adds thoughtfully, stroking his chin with his thumb, and it suddenly hits Hermione how _dazzlingly handsome_ he is.

“While I certainly have an appreciation for the subtle science of potions-making and can appreciate the beauty of a shimmering cauldron," he continues, "I… ah, find myself more pulled to areas of magic that require… foolish wand-waving and such.”

Hermione giggles, recognizing Snape’s speech in his words. Then, with seriousness, she mulls his words over. She admits hesitantly, “I’d love to, Professor… but I don’t know if I possess the ability to do it yet.”

He nods in understanding. “Yes, well, we would start with something far easier than this, of course. But…” He narrows his eyes somewhat in thought, and Hermione blinks twice to stop herself from drooling. “Your first Defence class is rather practical… Maybe I can, let’s say, see you _in action_ first, and then we’ll decide?”

She nods happily, and Professor Riddle stands, retrieving both teacups.

“Almost dinner time,” he says, and Hermione understands that she has been dismissed.

“Thank you for the tea, sir,” she says as she retrieves her belongings and walks to the door. Before she can open it, his voice stops her.

“What about your… ‘light reading,’ Miss Granger?”

“Oh, my book! Yes, thank you!” She grins.

Handing it to her, he opens the door. “We’ll see each other… Friday, then,” he utters, and she nods, looking up at him, taking him in fully. Dark hair, pale skin, dark blue eyes, straight nose, long lashes—

Blushing, she leaves quickly, book in one hand and bag in other.

Behind her, Riddle closes the door slowly, a thoughtful, calculating expression etched upon his lovely face.

**_._ **

“All right, class, settle down.”

The words are not loud, but the effect is instantaneous. Some people just… _have that_ . That ability to claim the attention of a whole room just by _entering_ or basically _being_ themselves.

Hermione watches him expectantly, really curious about how he will teach them. Her hands are in her lap, and she’s sitting on the second row, alone.

Behind her, Lavender and Parvati are whispering and giggling madly, looking at the professor every two seconds. She catches Lavender gushing about how handsome he is and feels a strange stabbing in her stomach. Envy, maybe, or whatever, because Lavender is so much prettier than Hermione is, and—

 _Stop it, Hermione,_ she scolds herself. _He’s your teacher._

Professor Riddle writes, ‘ _Tom Riddle,_ ’ in a very elegant script on the board and then turns to face them. “But, to you, I am Professor Riddle of course. Now, giggling girl in the third row. Yes, you,” he adds when Lavender looks up, surprised, “Miss…?”

She clears her throat. “Brown, sir.”

Professor Riddle looks at his roster. “Lavender Brown?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me the three most basic defense spells there are?”

Lavender flushes and shakes her head.

“Oh, my bad, I thought you were discussing them with your friend already,” he says sardonically.

Hermione looks down and hopes her hair hides her smile. When she looks up again, Riddle is staring directly at her with an amused expression.

“Can you, Miss Granger?”

“Uhm, I think— _expelliarmus_ and _protego_ are basic but important. Also, _stupefy,_ maybe?”

“It was a trick question,” he acknowledges. “There are only two. _Stupefy_ would be considered more of an offensive one, though it’s not a bad example as a third defensive one. Five points to Gryffindor.”

She smiles, and Professor Riddle faces the class.

“Forget just coming here to write down things and giggle with your friends. You cannot learn to defend yourselves by just _listening_ to me. You have to get up and _do_ it. I don’t care what you learned last year; this year, we are starting over again. When you take your O.W.L.s, I expect you to be able to hold a basic duel with defensive _and_ offensive spells, I expect you to be able to know exactly what to do when faced with certain creatures, and I expect you to know some more creative spells. Don’t think DADA is a ‘standalone’ course; I will also be expecting you to be able to know the right potions to use in certain cases, how to work charms and transfiguration, and I want you to know magical objects and their history, as well as the history of wars and the evolution of spells.”

The whole class groans, but Professor Riddle isn’t finished.

In a softer tone, he continues, “When you pass your O.W.L.s— _if_ you pass your O.W.L.s—I will be teaching you much more advanced spells, spells that combine those fields of magic you seem to want to keep apart so badly. I will teach you the Patronus Charm and will work with you on conjuration of weapons and untransfiguration. I will teach you how to heal wounds and save lives. I will give a basic but more advanced protective-rune course and teach you to enhance your protection with them. I can teach you how to become invisible _,_ how to sneak by your enemy unheard, unseen. For those of you more interested in the offensive spells, I can teach you spells that are neither dark nor light, spells that can maim and bleed. I can teach you how to kill someone, if necessary… I could even teach you the Unforgivables…”

He seems to caress the words, and everyone, including Hermione is mesmerized. With a staggering clarity, she realizes that he _could_ kill them all if he wanted to, faster than they could call for help, but she also sees how much he could teach them, teach _her_ , if—

“Of course, I will not do such things.” He laughs, and the tense, uneasy atmosphere in the classroom is broken as some people laugh, too, a bit nervously. Hermione does not laugh. She continues watching, transfixed, as he fingers his wand.

He meets her eyes, and he keeps holding them as he continues, “But what I _will_ do is lead you to your full potential and keep pushing you until you reach it. I will _not_ let you give up, and every spell I ask you to perform you _will_ perform. I expect you to do better than your best, and—face it,” here, he raised his eyebrows, “you’re stuck with me until O.W.L.s. Then you _or I_ can decide to go on or stop right there. Now, Lavender Brown—present.” He nods to himself. “Seamus Finnigan?”

He proceeds with the student roster.

They practice disarming and shielding spells that day, and, by the end of the lesson, Hermione has managed them both, though her shield only works two out of three times. Lavender seems to take vicious joy in disarming Hermione, but she fails more than she succeeds. Harry Potter disarms Ron Weasley on his third try—first in the class—and Hermione is the first with a shield, which earns them both another five points.

At the end of the lesson, Hermione is exhausted, and, when Professor Riddle announces that there’s no homework, she’s actually grateful. Somehow, she doubts getting good marks is easy in this class.

“Miss Granger?” he asks when she’s about to leave the room. “Do you have a moment?”

She curses herself for always leaving first and mutters in affirmative without meeting anyone’s eyes because, if she does, she is sure Lavender’s look will scorch her—and Ron’s and Parvati’s won’t be too kind, either.

The others leave considerably slower than normal, but Riddle does not look up until everyone has left. Then, with a wave of his wand, he closes the door and beckons her closer.

“Yes, sir?”

“If you’re still interested, I am willing to teach you,” he says, and they both know it’s not a question. Still, Hermione nods, and he smiles briefly. “I understand that you’re particularly interested in transfigurations.”

“Yes, I find it very interesting.”

“I will be busy preparing new classes for a while since this is my first year as a professor, so I thought I’d give you… this.” He reaches back before handing her _Intermediate Transfiguration_. “I’d like you to study this. It’s O.W.L. level, something you would only see in third and fourth year. It covers some less basic transformations and vanishment. When you finish it, you come to me. And you can take your time, so I suggest you at least understand the basic concepts.”

“All right, sir.”

“Good,” he says. “Now, go enjoy your weekend.”

She curses herself all the way to Gryffindor tower because she’s unable to get his smile out of her mind.

**_._ **

Lavender accosts her with a nasty smirk on her face and keeps nagging her about being a teacher’s pet for two hours straight. It’s only when Hermione is laying in her bed that she realizes the girl is just envious of Hermione being singled out by Professor Riddle.

 _She should know_ , Hermione thinks and almost laughs at the irony.

**_._ **

“Miss Granger,” he says, surprised, “what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be upstairs, celebrating with your peers?”

She startles and blushes as she looks up from her book. “I don’t really get along with the other Gryffindors,” she mumbles, praying he will not force her to join them.

“Understandable,” he drawls after a beat, the corner of his mouth rising to show his amusement.

Nodding, she looks down, waiting for the “But…”—but it never comes. Instead, soft footsteps approach the far-right table she’s sitting at, and, to her great surprise, Professor Riddle sits across from her.

Immediately, a house elf rushes over. “Can Lippy get Master Riddle anything, sir?”

“I think I’ll have whatever Miss Granger is eating, Lippy; it looks delicious. Also, some pumpkin juice and a pumpkin-apple pastry.”

“Yes, Master.” The elf nods five times and leaves, still nodding.

Riddle focuses his attention back on her. “What are you reading, Miss Granger?”

“Oh.” Hermione swallows her mouthful of shepherd’s pie quickly and holds up _Hogwarts, A History._

“Ah, a fine choice,” he states, “…though, if I remember well, it’s lacking in some aspects. I don’t remember the kitchens being described in it, nor its occupants.”

“I followed some older students,” Hermione explains. Then she adds disgustedly, “They were mistreating the elves so badly that I wanted to torture them.”

Something flashes in Riddle’s eyes, and she adds quickly, “In a manner of speaking, of course.”

“Hmm,” he makes noncommittally. “Yes, not all wizards show proper respect to other creatures.”

Hermione nods but decides to hold back on the rant she has in mind. Somehow, with Professor Riddle, she always feels… _careful_ , mindful. It’s a difficult feeling to explain, but she feels great admiration for the man, even though she has known him for only two months. A sixth sense tells her there’s much more to him than he lets on, that there’s something… _hidden_ beneath the surface. That it is the reason he commands such respect.

Foolishly, she wishes people would feel that about her, too.

But, _no,_ she only gets called an _‘annoying know-it-all_ ’ by Ron Weasley, _after_ she helped him with the Charms essay.

She had cried in the bathroom for what felt like three hours and then decided he wasn’t worth it. _That none of them were worth it._ So, she had pushed back her shoulders, tilted up her chin, and—

Hidden in the kitchen instead of joining the Halloween feast.

So much for Gryffindor bravery and nerve _._

Lippy reappears with a steaming plate, a glass of pumpkin juice, and a basket filled with pastries. Hermione stares at the plate longingly, hers long-since cold by now.

“Would Miss be wanting something else?” the elf asks.

She shakes her head, smiling.

“Warming charms are only taught in fourth year, if I recall correctly,” Professor Riddle comments suddenly.

Hermione makes a childish face at herself for being so transparent.

He chuckles, and, with a snap of his fingers, the plate visibly starts steaming again.

Her eyes grow wide. “You can do _wandless_ magic?” she blurts out.

“A most useful skill.”

“But only very, _very_ powerful wizards can do that! I mean, not that I doubt you being powerful, but—I—well—” She takes a bit to stop herself from making. It. Even. Worse…; and promptly burns her tongue. Grabbing her pumpkin juice to soothe her poor tongue— _thank God she didn’t bump the glass and spill the juice—_ she decides that they would both be better off if she continues reading her book.

Professor Riddle, however, interrupts her hand’s journey, his eyes tracking her face. “It’s a very selective book,” he remarks, gesturing at it—she removes her hand like it has been burned as badly as her tongue. “All of the… _uglier_ facets of Hogwarts have been carefully removed. For example… have you ever heard of… the legend of the _Chamber of Secrets_?”

“Chamber of Secrets?”

“Well, you know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded a long, long time ago by the four greatest witches and wizards of the age. The four houses are named after them—Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. For a few years, the founders worked in harmony together, admitting all young people who showed signs of magical ability. But then disagreements sprang up between them; a rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others.

“Slytherin wished to be more selective about the students admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that magical learning should be kept within all-magic families. He disliked taking students of muggle parentage, believing them to be untrustworthy. After a while, there was a serious argument on the subject between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left the school. Now, the story goes that, _before_ Slytherin left Hogwarts, he built a hidden chamber in the castle, disguised from the other founders and students.

“According to the legend, he sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all who were unworthy to study magic.”

“Mudbloods,” Hermione softly whispers. Then she snorts. “I already have noticed the Slytherins’ dislike for people such as me, _obviously_ … Is it true, then?”

“Some people claim that it’s only a legend. But… fifty years ago, a girl died here in this school. There were very strong facts pointing toward the heir of Slytherin, but the attacks stopped after that, and neither the culprit nor the monster were ever found. It could be a coincidence, of course—just a terrible accident. It _could_ just be a legend, but—”

“—Every legend always has a basis in fact,” she murmurs. A girl _died?_ A muggleborn? Just because of blood?

“Indeed.” He nods, and, at the sight of her horrified face, he adds, “but you should know, Miss Granger… not all Slytherins are like that.” At her incredulous glance, he continues, “I was a Slytherin, myself. Yet I have always held an appreciation for… power and intelligence, regardless of blood status.”

Hermione snorts. “Yes, well, I am neither terribly powerful nor intelligent. I just have a good memory.” She bitterly shrugs her shoulders and carefully starts eating again.

Riddle, too, takes another bite before he seemingly changes the subject altogether. “Have you finished the book I gave you?”

“I have two chapters to go,” she answers. “I think I’ll have it finished tonight.”

“See me next Tuesday, then, and we’ll see if your self-deprecation has a rightful base to stand on.”

She cringes at his reproachful tone and looks away, not quite knowing how to react. Her left hand inches toward her book again—but then he speaks up.

“Now, tell me, what did you learn today?” he asks, his long fingers gracefully tearing a piece of his pastry, the golden crumbs falling neatly on the empty spot on his plate.

She frowns. He _knows_ this already, right? It’s just boring second-year stuff, anyway.

“If I ask you something, it’s not because I feel the need for idle chatter. I genuinely want an answer, so you don’t have to worry about boring me with one—unless, of course, it _really_ is boring. But my self-preservation skills will kick in before you can bore me to death. No need to worry.”

She breathes out a laugh and starts talking. “Well, in Charms, we learned _wingardium leviosa._ Professor Flitwick told us how a single mispronunciation could change the whole spell—quite interesting, actually…” And she launches into a detailed explanation of her progress in the other courses.

He gives her an approving look and listens carefully. He shows the right amount of interest and asks questions at the right moments, and her book is forgotten for the rest of the meal—and for a good part of the evening, too.

**_._ **

“Again.”

“But it was done perfectly,” Hermione exclaims. “Look!”

Grabbing a needle, she approaches the needle cushion—

Only to have it flinch away from her.

Professor Riddle chuckles. “It’s a difficult one. Most students only get this in their fourth year, but you’re already doing quite well. Now, again.”

He waves his wand, and the hedgehog reappears.

Sighing, Hermione raises her wand—

“No, no, your stance is wrong, to begin with,” he interrupts her. “Most people find it silly to watch something like their stance, but it has been proven to affect spellcasting quite severely. It’s best if you learn the habit now.”

“…How should I stand, then?” she asks as she checks herself.

“Place your feet just a tiny bit apart. Roll your shoulders and keep them back. Lift your chin.”

She frowns but does as he asks.

“Now, that is how you look confident.”

Hermione’s mouth drops open, and he breaths a laugh, coming over.

“Confidence is quite important to succeed in various aspects of life, Miss Granger. But, for the spell, it will do if you just shift your wand up a bit in your hands. Yes, like that. Now, wrap your fingers more—no, around. No, a bit lower; you need flexibility without losing a good grip. Yes, now, check your thumb and your fingers. Yes, like that.”

“But I thought—”

“— _A Standard Book of Spells, Grade I_?”

“…Yes,” she says slowly.

He shakes his head. “No…” he drawls, imitating her tone, “that explanation is only to assure people will not jab an eye out or something. _This_ is the proper way to hold your wand.”

“Oh.”

“Now, try it again.”

_Flick, jab, end up, and—_

He grabs a needle from the stack and approaches the cushion, driving the needle in deep, deep.

“Perfect,” he whispers and then looks at her, repeating the word.

And Hermione feels something surge through her, through her, as she stares into his blue eyes, and—

The moment is broken.

“I need to go,” she says. “It’s quite late already.”

He hands her bag to her and opens the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow in class, then. Don’t forget to complete the assignment.”

“Already did,” she retorts and just manages to not stick her tongue out at him.

“Of course you did. Silly me.” He winks and closes the door.

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes for a second—

And smiles like a fool for the rest of the evening.

**_._ **

She’s sitting on his desk and he’s leaning next to her, watching the pig she’s transforming.

When she manages to do it perfectly, he gently pushes her wand away and banishes the pig. “I’d really like to teach you to combine magic, Miss Granger. You’re a very promising student, and I think you could— _you will—_ achieve great things.”

She laughs nervously. “Whoever said, ‘Flattery won’t work on me,’ obviously never met _you._ ”

He smiles at her—that slow lips-dragging-over-teeth smile—and she mentally adds, _Charm, too._

“Is that a ‘yes,’ then? I’d teach you the basics of the separate areas first, like we’ve been doing with transfigurations, and then we’d start combining—and maybe add some runes, too. You’re going to take Runes next year, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know why I even bother still going to class,” she murmurs. “I could just learn everything from you.”

“Yes, well, that is why I am proposing this.” He smirks. “Instead of simply going ahead of the Hogwarts curriculum, we will be going more in-depth. I will not be teaching you to simply _do_ magic; I will teach you the magic _itself_ , magic in the purest form without separation or restrictions.”

“I’d like that very much, Professor,” she whispers, mesmerized by his words, his knowledge, his _power._

“Good,” he says. “We’ll finish the Transfiguration themes, and then I expect you’ll be busy with your finals… So, it will probably have to wait for next year. Are you taking Runes next year? And what about the other courses?”

“I was actually considering taking them all.”

“‘ _All_ ’ _?_ ” He frowns. “I would not do that if I were you. You will end up overexerting yourself.”

“But they all sound so interesting!” She pouts.

He smiles. “Muggle Studies, though, considering you come from muggle background?”

“Yes, but it seems terribly fascinating to study them from a wizard’s point of view!”

“If that’s what you’re expecting, you’ll be quite disappointed. For someone like you, taking a Muggle Studies course would be like… say, taking a basic English course—you’d learn words like ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’ and how to go to the restaurant and to the store. You’ll just end up becoming annoyed by all the mistakes they teach you.”

Hermione frowns, considering his words. “I suppose you have a point,” she concedes. “The other four, though?”

He snorts. “Divination is rubbish. It’s a gift one is _born_ with, like Parseltongue—not something one acquires by dressing in overly large clothes, wearing too much perfume, speaking of death and tragedy in a mystical tone, nursing the ‘inner eye’ in a comfy chair, and gazing into a fog-filled glass ball while pretending to see something.” His lip curls up, showing his distaste. “At least, that’s what you get with a teacher like _Trelawney_ , who does not seem to respect any rational thought.”

She laughs. “Okay, okay, no Divination and no Muggle Studies. But I’ll still be taking Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, and Arithmancy.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less from you, Miss Granger.”

She smiles.

**_._ **

“You gave me an _E_!” she exclaims, pouting.

He turns around, startled, but his face relaxes into an easy smile when he spots her in his doorway. She ignores the twist in her stomach.

“After a whole summer, this is how you greet me?” he asks, amused, and beckons her inside. “I can assume that you got off your train and headed over here immediately?”

She flushes and carelessly plops down in his chair. There’s a loud screech, and Professor Riddle looks quite alarmed.

“Oh, yeah.” She laughs. “Professor, meet my new cat, Crookshanks. Crooks, this is Professor Riddle. Be nice,” she admonishes.

The cat in question meows indignantly and, when Hermione releases him, jumps out of his box, licks his paw, and starts delicately washing his face. Riddle approaches him, and Crooks cautiously sniffs before allowing the caress.

The professor chuckles and crouches to continue petting the cat. He’s dressed casually. Still, his clothes look very expensive: black, well-fitting pants and a loose shirt without a tie, showing of the beginning of a well-sculpted chest.

He looks _good_ , and Hermione’s mouth suddenly goes dry.

She blinks and looks away, muttering sullenly, “I can’t believe you only gave me an E.”

He shakes his head, grinning at her. “Well, you _did_ exceed my expectations. Besides, I know you can do better. And you still got the highest scores out of the whole year.”

She smiles, slightly mollified by that.

“My little Gryffindor, only satisfied if she’s the best,” he says, amused.

“I am not little,” she grumbles, and an unreadable look passes his face before his smirk widens. He looks kind of… _hungry._

“Now, Miss Granger, I do believe that you should attend the feast,” he says as he stands up.

Crookshanks stops purring and starts rolling over the carpet.

“Shouldn’t _you_ attend, too?”

“I plan to enter right after the Sorting—so, in five to ten minutes.”

“The Sorting!” she gasps.

“Poor hat,” Riddle says, moving to the bookcase. “He spends the whole year working on a song, and you don’t even dignify it by listening. Now,” he looks at her, “prepare to learn one of the secrets of this room.” With that, he presses a small black book. It looks rather like a journal, leather-bound, and flaking golden letters on it—

The bookcase opens, revealing a room behind it.

Hermione’s eyebrows rise, and he chuckles.

“It’s only my dorm. I’m going to wash my hands and grab my cloak and tie. Then we’ll go down to the Great Hall.”

Hermione walks over to Crooks and lowers herself to sit next to him on the carpet. The cat pads over to sit in her lap, and she pets him absently, eyes wandering the room. A golden flicker catches her attention, and she frowns. Is that a—

“Ready to go?”

Shoving Crooks off her lap—he meows indignantly—she jumps up and, after slight hesitation, feeling cautious, and feeling _ridiculous_ about feeling cautious, asks, “Professor, is that—is that a _time turner_?”

“A replica,” he replies after a beat, following her gaze. “I understand this one has a nasty side effect if you try to use it as you would a real one, hence why it’s in my possession; I am investigating it. Besides,” he chuckles, “not even Unspeakables manage to get their hands on real ones. How would _I_ ever manage?”

He sounds very amused by this.

She nods—though, _a replica?_ And then she asks, “‘Unspeakables’?”

He frowns. “Sometimes I forget how much you don’t know about this world. Come, I’ll explain it to you along the way.” He sweeps out his arm, indicating that she should go first.

**_._ **

“But, Professor,” she exclaims, “this is dark magic!”

He arches an eyebrow, as if asking, _‘What is your point, exactly?’_

“But… only _evil people_ practice dark magic.”

He smiles indulgently. “There is no good or evil, Miss Granger. There is only power and those too _weak_ to seek it.”

The fourteen year old shakes her head, thrusting the book back into his hand. He accepts it with a blank look on his face, though she swears his eyes flash red for a second.

 _Just a trick of the light,_ she tells herself, but she still looks stricken.

He smiles then, slowly, predatorily. “Ten points to Gryffindor for firmly standing by what you believe is right.”

She smiles, delighted, and forgets about her fear.

“What about… the Patronus Charm?” he continues.

Her eyes widen. “But, Professor, that’s really advanced magic!”

“And all of the transfigurations and charms we did last year are not?” he says, amused. “You have already surpassed the level of many fifth years, who are now desperately studying for O.W.L.s that you’ll have no trouble getting.”

She frowns, and he edges, “Besides, we can try, can we not? Aren’t Gryffindors known for their daring, bold personality?”

“Yes, well, sometimes I think I ought to have been a Ravenclaw instead.”

“Endless pursuit of knowledge, then. Ah, ah,” he adds, seeing the grin on her face, “you are certainly no Hufflepuff—which would be perseverance and hard work—and, if you say, ‘Slytherin,’ I say, ‘Determination,’” he teases.

“Fine,” she grumbles. “ _Expecto patronum_ , right?”

He smirks—she suppresses the urge to stick her tongue out—and starts his explanation.

**_._ **

“I can’t do it,” she proclaims, moody and sullen, because, after seven weeks, _seven_ , she still is no further than a few silvery wisps.

“Then you choose another memory.” He frowns. “Again.”

“No!”

“Miss Granger—”

“—What if I really can’t?” she asks, trying to restrain her anger and frustration.

“How do you mean? There isn’t a spell that you haven’t been able to do. You just need to focus on a very happy—”

“—I haven’t got one of those!” she exclaims, flinging her hands up. Her wand accidentally slips out of her grip, and she winces as it clatters loudly on the ground.

His steps are measured as he picks up her wand and hands it back to her. She mumbles a quiet, “Thanks,” and keeps looking at the ground, feeling his eyes search her face.

“There are… other methods, of course. But, no, I will _not_ let you give up, Miss Granger. What about… the first time you came to Hogwarts?”

“Already tried that one,” she says bitterly. “The only good things Hogwarts has given me are the lessons and you. Maybe the food, too, but—”

She debates with herself as to admit it or not. “Lavender Brown, her little friends, and soon-to-be boyfriend. Same thing at home, too—I have many happy memories with my parents, but they are apparently not strong enough.”

She’s on the verge of crying now, but she wills herself not to; he will only find it weak.

His face does not change, but his eyes display a myriad of things, all which go by too quickly for her to understand. “Another emotion, then, as equally strong. If not happiness… what about… _love_?” He looks pained by the word. “Or, better yet, triumph? It can be the… warm, _fuzzy_ kind—or cold, determined.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly certain she will choose the first one.

Hermione thinks. She pictures the perfect memory. “ _Expecto patronum_ ,” she whispers, letting the feeling overwhelm her and reveling in it.

A silver otter sprouts from her wand, darts around her head and then nuzzles Professor Riddle’s neck, before it dashes out of the window and disappears into the clouds.

“I did it!” she squeals, hopping in place twice.

“Very good,” he praises. “What was the memory?”

“Uhm, I-I… well…” She’s rather ashamed of the story. “I was five—it’s one of the only memories I have from that age. There was… there was this awful, terrible girl. Her name… _Emily_ . We were coloring and working with scissors, and she’d been mocking me the whole day already. Then she goes and chops off a bit of my hair, and—God, I was _so_ mad.”

“What happened?” he asks softly.

She startles a bit, having forgotten about his presence. “The scissors went straight through her hand,” Hermione admits. “She almost lost a finger. Later, I felt terribly guilty, though. Of course, since I had never touched her, no one believed me when I insisted it was my fault… but, _right_ after it happened, even before she started screaming and just stared at the scissors in her hand, shocked—I felt _so proud_ of myself.”

Something flashes in his eyes, and the orange glow of the setting sun makes him look rather sinister as he nods slowly.

“Good,” he says at last. “You know which memory to use from now on. Now, that was all for Charms. Next time, we’ll start with the basic defensive spells I haven’t yet covered in class, and then we can start combining.”

“Okay,” Hermione says, gathering her belongings.

“And, Miss Granger,” he asks when she’s almost at the door, “did that girl, Emily, ever bother you again?”

“No,” she answers, narrowing her eyes a bit in thought. “No, she never did.”

“What makes her so different from Lavender Brown and Ronald Weasley, then?” His eyebrows raise.

Hermione takes a sharp intake of breath. _How does he even know? What—why, does he mean what I think he means—_

“No need to answ—”

“—I don’t know.” _What?_ She had not been ready to answer that. Why is she so honest with him?

“I suggest you figure it out, then.” He looks satisfied, and his smile has a cruel twist.

Hermione finds herself nodding, actually considering his words, and she leaves quickly.

The conversation, however, never quite leaves her thoughts…

**_._ **

“So… felt too good for Divination? Decided to get some extra _tutoring_ lessons with Professor Riddle instead?”

Hermione closes her eyes for a second before staring longingly at the tapestry _two steps_ away from her. There is a tiny alcove behind it—comfy, cozy, and snug—and she wants that _so_ badly. To just disappear from this world. To go up into the sky and fall like a leaf or raindrop, to just be left alone to do what she wants to do without judgement.

To be _invisible_ , even, if only for a little while.

But, if she ignores Lavender now, if she enters the alcove, the only place in the castle she can find rest within will no longer be only hers, and she—

“Well, Lavender,” she says sweetly, but while also clenching her book tighter and hoping she doesn’t sound as trapped as she feels, “maybe some people actually _appreciate_ intelligence.”

Lavender snorts and all but screeches, “ _Appreciate_ ? What, do you think he appreciates _you?_ ” She gives Hermione a once-over to emphasize how unlikely she finds it, how _undeserving_ she finds her of any sort of positive emotion. “Or, maybe, do you think he likes you?”

The last part is said in a mockingly pitying, girly tone, and Lavender pouts a bit before she smirks, revealing perfect and straight white teeth. “Face it, Hermione,” her tone is sharp now, “even the ugliest man on earth would rather be with a troll than _you_ . _”_

A few of the curious people who had gathered around look away, but most of them laugh. Laugh, point, and nudge each other. She catches Draco Malfoy mouthing, “Troll,” at her, and Lavender revels in the attention—

Hermione flees and locks herself in the bathroom, hot tears running over her cheeks.

**_._ **

The next day, Lavender Brown falls from the stairs as they suddenly give a vicious jolt and change direction a second before they should have. The screaming girl is quickly carried to the infirmary, and Madame Pomfrey’s diagnosis is a severely fractured bone. (Her wand arm is broken in three different places, one of which is the elbow.)

However, no amount of Skele-Gro seems to fix the damage, so Madame Pomfrey, desperate, performs a modified healing spell. She doesn’t dare to do it all the way since the Skele-Gro didn’t help, so Lavender must wear a plaster cast for three weeks like the muggles would.

Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick charm the girl’s quill to write and bag to pack and unpack for themselves, but wandwork, including her daily charms, are out of the question.

She’s also unable to apply her makeup.

Also, because the cast is so uncomfortable, she can’t sleep well, resulting in bags under her eyes, and she can’t use makeup to hide them.

After a mere week… Lavender Brown looks horrendous.

So horrendous that even _Draco Malfoy_ sidles up next to Hermione in the Great Hall and says loudly, “Have you looked into the mirror lately, Brown? Because, next to you, our troll looks like a beauty queen.”

Lavender breaks down and runs away, and Malfoy offers Hermione an arrogant smirk before returning to the Slytherin table.

Hermione can’t suppress her smile due to Lavender’s reaction and Malfoy’s not-quite compliment and leaves the Great Hall excitedly.

The interaction, however, has not gone completely unnoticed by the table across the hall, and two pairs of eyes—their respective owners sitting at the teacher table—follow the girl until she disappears through the doorway.

Hermione receives a note from Professor Riddle, and, that same evening, he hands her very first butterbeer to her and toasts, “To the first of many… _achievements_.”

Overall, it has the desired effect.

Lavender Brown never bothers Hermione again.

**_._ **

The remainder of the year passes by quickly, and, before she knows it, fourth year is here.

It starts with an announcement about the Triwizard Tournament being held in the school.

Hermione passes her time by yearning for Professor Riddle, who is busy preparing the tasks and helping Hufflepuffs. She’s trying to ignore the feeling of Dumbledore’s eyes on her.

It all changes when Viktor Krum takes an interest in a quiet girl in the library.

It’s the start of something new.

**_._ **

Draco Malfoy curses her in front of Professor Snape, who dismisses the incident by pretending he sees _no change._

Ron Weasley laughs at her, conveniently forgetting that _he_ was the one the curse was meant for. Hermione flees, tears in her eyes and a hand in front of her mouth.

Madame Pomfrey fixes her teeth, and Hermione urges her to continue to make them better.

She ignores the feeling she gets in her stomach when Professor Riddle’s eyes widen the moment she presents him with a perfect smile.

**_._ **

“Hermione?”

“Yes?” she asks, whirling around.

A timid first year, a Hufflepuff with too-large glasses and a big scroll in his hand, stands before her. “You’re Hermione Granger?”

“…I am,” she says slowly.

“Oh.”

She waits one second, three, five. “Did you _need_ something?” she asks, a tad impatient.

The boy flushes and presses the scroll into her hand. After a beat, he starts staring at her again.

“Something _else_?”

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

She rolls her eyes. “Not now.”

“Oh,” he mutters again.

She narrows her eyes at him, and, suddenly, he flinches and leaves very quickly.

_What was—_

_Oh._

The letter in her hand is from the headmaster.

And he’s summoning her.

_Oh._

**_._ **

“Lemon drop?”

“No, thank you, Professor,” she replies, a tad shy.

He sighs, a bit of pressure behind the exhale, and puts the little box of sweets away. Then he crosses his hands, props his chin on them, and looks her in the eyes.

She suddenly feels… _very exposed._ Like he’s staring straight into her soul.

It’s an even worse feeling than the one she has with Professor Riddle.

“Do you know why I asked you to come, Hermione?”

“No, Headmaster.” Her curls bounce as she shakes her head.

“It has come to my attention that you’ve been spending a lot of time with… _Professor Riddle_.”

“Oh,” she exclaims, “yes, he offered to give me some extra lessons.”

He smiles at her. “But your grades are near perfect.”

She suddenly feels… _on edge_. Like there’s something he wants to know, is pulling out of her—but she doesn’t want him to know.

It’s a ridiculous feeling, of course, because she has never done anything wrong… really wrong.

“He’s not tutoring me or anything, no.” She smiles softly, trying to put charm behind the words. “Just teaching me some extras.”

She looks away shyly and back up again, meeting his gaze. “I hope—I mean, I could do the things in the lessons already, but he offered me knowledge. He—”

He’s _magnetic._ Charismatic. He radiates confidence. _Power._

“Hermione…” He hesitates but forges on, “You do know that certain… _relationships_ are punished in schools, in both the muggle and wizard worlds?”

“‘Relationships’? Oh, _oh,_ no, it’s not like that at all!” She laughs shrilly because, honestly, what a _ridiculous_ idea.

“I’m sorry. I just had to ask.”

Dumbledore smiles again, but she doesn’t feel at ease at all. His twinkling eyes—how they bore into her own. His attitude, his smiling ease, his desk full of trinkets.

It makes her feel rather claustrophobic. Like a fly caught in a spider’s web.

_Somehow, Riddle’s web is more appealing._

Her eyes open wide involuntarily because… where the hell had that last thought come from? And Professor Dumbledore is speaking again, and—

“—anything at all, no matter how small, untoward, or anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. _Anything._ Maybe even… something he’s teaching you?”

_Well… technically, he’s not teaching me dark magic._

She doesn’t know.

“That’s very kind of you, Professor. But I can assure you that he has been a perfect gentleman.”

Oh, she doesn’t like it here. She doesn’t like it at all. She feels hot and invaded, and—what is he even _suggesting,_ and that dark magic, no, that wasn’t anything, and Lavender, Lavender, Lavender, but, no… but, yes—

_To the first of many achievements._

And his blue eyes, other blue eyes—both blue, dark—reading here, laying her bare. Legilimency and Occlumency, Professor Riddle, Dumbledore, lo—

Lavender?

_Lavender?_

“Is there anything you wish to tell me?”

And raised eyebrows and twinkling, twinkling trinkets, blue eyes.

Suddenly, she knows.

It screams of manipulation.

“No,” she chokes out, composing herself. She’s blinking fast and smiling. “No.”

“Are you all right—”

“—I have been feeling a bit tired, Professor.” She smiles, fully composed, and sits very straight. “I think Madame Pomfrey’s potions, perhaps, will do the trick.”

She stands up a tad too quickly, so she adds, “Thank you for your concern.”

She smiles again until her face hurts.

He nods, and, dismissed, she turns to walk away, forcing herself to not leave too quickly and to just breathe.

That night, two different sets of blue eyes stare at her, and she doesn’t know which one to choose.

She forgets the dream when she wakes up.

Still. It _lingers._

**_._ **

“I heard you were summoned by Professor Dumbledore.”

“Oh, yes! He, uhm…”

“…He?” He raises his eyebrows, an expression she knows all too well.

“Well, he wanted to talk about… about you.” She shrugs and chuckles a bit. But his eyes are searching her face, and she knows that he knows there’s more.

“About _me_?”

“About… us.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Professor?”

He looks furious. “So, what did you tell him?”

“The truth. That I have been feeling unchallenged by Hogwarts curriculum, and you offered me something more.”

“‘The… truth,’” he repeats, his eyes narrowing, “because that’s all there is to it, right, Miss Granger?”

“Yes, Professor Riddle.”

“Good,” he says slowly, nodding in approval. “I heard you enjoyed the Yule Ball.”

“The… Oh, yes.” She forgets her confusion about the sudden subject change. With a wistful smile, she says, “It was… _magical._ ”

“Really? Because _I_ saw a crying girl on the stairs with no trace of her date.”

“Wha—” she breathes, “ _how?_ ” Her voice breaks a little.

“I was on rounds.” He shrugs. “I decided not to approach you because… well, crying girls have never been my forte.”

“It was Ron Weasley,” she admits, “accusing me of fraternizing with the enemy… as if he has ever thought that I belonged in Gryffindor. Or in Hogwarts, for that matter. Viktor was… really sweet.”

“‘ _Sweet_ ’?” he asks, and, for a moment, Hermione hears a derisive tone.

She hums and turns away slightly. Out of the corner of her eye, she detects a sudden movement, and, alarmed, she looks back at him.

How odd. She could have _sworn_ he had lunged at her, but he’s standing there, fully composed. Only, his eyes—

They seem more… _intense_ somehow. Jealous?

Ridiculous, of course.

She breathes in, out, and asks a question she has wondered about for ages to distract herself. “Professor, that ring you always wear…”

He twists the black stone on the ring and arches an eyebrow.

“An old family heirloom,” he says at last, and he sounds amused. “It’s very dear to me. There’s a connection somehow.”

He’s definitely amused, though Hermione doesn’t understand what’s so funny.

“Right,” she says. “It’s beautiful.”

His grin widens. “Thank you.”

She shrugs awkwardly and hates his perfect teeth—her parents would wholeheartedly approve of them—and the fuzzy feeling she gets inside.

He’s still staring at her.

 _Stop imagining things, Hermione,_ she scolds herself.

There has never been something between them.

There never will be.

She doesn’t feel anything for him.

**_._ **

Hogwarts wins the Triwizard Tournament.

Viktor presses a kiss to her cheek in farewell, and she promises to write him letters over the summer.

Professor Riddle summons her one more time before summer break. He congratulates her on her perfect scores—does this with a wink—and proposes a whole new project for fifth year.

“I know I haven’t been able to give you many extra lessons this year, but your runes are perfect, as is your combination of them with transfigurations and charms. So—”

“…So?”

“Would you like to become an Animagus?”

Hermione’s mouth falls open.

“But, Professor, doesn’t that have to be regulated by millions of laws?”

“That was not the question, Miss Granger.”

She debates with herself, silently, furiously. Why not?

_Why not?_

“I’d like that, Professor,” she finally says.

“Good,” he says with a smile. “I’ll see you next year, then… Hermione.”

It’s the first time he has used her given name.

She likes the sound of it on his tongue.

**_._ **

“Now, _focus_ ,” he breathes. “You’re almost there, Hermione. I know you can do it. Wand? Position? Spell?”

“Yes,” she forces out, fighting against the magic overwhelming her and trying to keep her balance.

“Keep your eyes closed. Focus and draw on your magic core. Let it define you, let it _change_ you.”

“I—ugh, I—it hurts,” she whines out.

“I know, I know,” he says soothingly. “It’s a painful process, but you’re nearly there. If you give up, you will not come this close again. I know you can do it, Hermione. I know you.”

“I—oh, _oh_ . _”_

“Focus, focus! Don’t let it slip away. Have you got it?”

“Ye—es, I… I… I think I’ve got… it.”

If she wasn’t focusing so hard, she would be embarrassed by her lack of eloquence. But it feels as if every nerve ending of her body is burning. It’s taking everything she has to keep _focusing,_ and she doesn’t understand why he won’t just let her say the spell already.

There is an odd hissing sound, loud then still, changing intonations. But, when she starts to open her eyes, he almost snarls, “Keep them _closed_ , Hermione. Focus.”

“I need to be sure, little lioness,” he whispers a second later, the last part so silently that she’s not sure she heard him. But there are fingertips dancing on her neck, and she _needs_ . She _wants_ —

“I'm sure!”

Expecting a, “Just a little more,” she’s wholly unprepared when he agrees.

“Say the spell, then.”

“Wha—”

“—Don’t. Lose. Focus. Hermione.”

“Ye—yes,” she breathes, and she starts the spell.

“Good, good. Now, for the finish.”

“ _Incantamus finites!_ ” she says and feels the magic pulling at her, changing her, sweeping her away.

Intelligent eyes stare back at her from the mirror Professor Riddle set up in advance. She whirls around, wanting to see every angle of her body, now covered in beautiful fur.

“Ah,” Professor Riddle chuckles, “a wildcat. How fitting.”

She bares her teeth at him and growls. He has the audacity to laugh.

“You conserved your freckles as markings,” he remarks and gently touches her nose. He brushes a whisker, and she spins at the feeling, eyes wide.

He laughs again. “Yes, it takes some adjusting.”

She wants to ask him why it’s fitting, but her words are replaced with meows. So, she cocks her head in question.

He understands that she’s asking something and answers, “Fitting because you’re beautiful, graceful, yet… _deadly_.”

She takes a long look at herself again, classifying everything: her light brown fur, the same color as her hair; the intelligent brown eyes staring back at her; the white, sharp teeth; and the light freckles across her elegant face.

Experimentally, she lifts a paw and flexes her nails in and out, in and out, transfixed by the image. She has the urge to claw and bite and maim and tear and _see blood—_

She also has the urge to lick the paw, so she chooses to do that instead, rubbing it carefully against her face.

Professor Riddle chuckles again and bends down to pet her, just like he did with Crookshanks two years ago. She wonders if her cat would let her play with him in this form. She also wonders if she could ask him to kill Ronald Weasley’s pet rat—

 _Oh_ , that feels good. Involuntarily, she starts purring, and she rubs her head against the professor’s hand. Her fur gets snagged in his ring, and there is an odd humming sensation that follows it. It feels— _electric_ , weirdly.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, freeing the ring, and then he smiles and gestures at the mirror. Softly, he asks, “Don’t we look good together?”

In response, she licks his face.

His eyes widen as he very slowly brings his hand to his face, looking at her in admonishment. “Time to change back, I think, Hermione.”

She purrs again, rubs against his legs as he stands up—intent on leaving as much fur on him as she can—and then focuses on changing back.

It’s much easier this time, and she looks at her hands in wonder. “You’ve been teaching me so many things, Professor,” she says, turning to him and freezing.

He’s standing very close, and she suddenly feels… _electrified._ Goosebumps erupt on her arms and neck at the intense look on his face.

“And I wish to teach so much more,” he says softly, bringing his hand up to her face to tuck away a loose strand of hair.

Hermione suddenly forgets how to breathe.

There is something dark in his eyes, something possessive, and—

She has never acknowledged it before, her beating heart around him. She has never _wanted_ to admit it, never wanted to link the feeling in her stomach to his presence—has told herself over and over again that he’s her _teacher._

Her mouth is dry, a biologic response of the sympathetic nervous system—and _why_ is she thinking about _that_ —and she licks her lips. The movement sends Professor Riddle’s eyes to her mouth, his gaze fixing on her moistened lips, pupils dilating, looking _hungry_ , and she feels—

She feels very on edge, very tense—ready to run away, to say something, to break the tension, yet oddly not wanting to break it. But, oh, God, something has to happen. She feels sweaty, tense, and warm, and something _has to happen._

He’s still scanning her face. He seems to see something that helps him decide because he’s bending forward, his mouth coming closer. Her eyes are closing, and—

“Professor Ri—oh.” Professor Sinistra stands in the doorway.

He acts very quickly, swatting at Hermione’s hair, even pulling a few strands out, before he moves away.

“Ow!” Hermione exclaims, but he shushes her, opening his hand and pretending to crush something with his foot.

“Sorry, Miss Granger, but I don’t think you would’ve wanted that insect to bite you. It should be fine, but maybe Madame Pomfrey could give you a paralysis potion.”

“Was it a—” starts Professor Sinistra, looking aghast.

“—Yes,” Riddle cuts her off. “I haven’t seen one in ages. Maybe a student entered with them; it wouldn’t surprise me. Now…” He fixes Sinistra with his gaze. “You believe me, and you see no necessity to tell anyone?”

She blinks, confused. “Yes.”

“Good,” he says pleasantly, holding one hand up to stop Hermione from protesting—not that she’s even thinking about it; she’s just too _relieved._

“What can I help you with, Aurora?”

Sinistra looks at Hermione hesitantly.

“I think I’ll be on my way, then,” Hermione says quickly. “Madame Pomfrey, right?”

“Yes, Miss Granger.”

“Thank you again, Professor.” She nods before hurrying away.

**_._ **

He falls into step next to her.

“I find myself unable to see you for the next couple of days, Miss Granger,” he says. Before she can even look disappointed, he adds, “But don’t worry; I _fully_ intend to finish what we started.”

There is an odd, threatening undertone, but Hermione shrugs it off, following him with her gaze until he rounds the corner.

That night, she puts silencing charms around her bed and starts a gentle exploration of her own body, which only leaves her panting and wanting more.

Wanting him.

**_._ **

“Oh, _oh,_ Professor!”

“Hermione,” he pants, a grin on his face, “I am literally _inside_ you. I think you can call me ‘Tom’ now.”

He’s laughing at her, so, as retaliation, she digs her nails into his back, hard.

Groaning, he drives his teeth into her neck, harder. When he kisses her, there is blood on his lips, and the coppery taste fills her mouth.

There is blood under her nails, too.

“Pro—oh, God, _Tom!_ ” she exclaims when he starts moving again, the pain of her loss of virginity already forgotten.

“Glad you think so, darling,” he says, peppering kisses on her bruised lips. He reaches down between them to play with her sensitive peak of flesh, his other hand tugging at her nipple, but he still comes before she does.

 _It’s normal if you’re a virgin,_ she remembers, _but_ —

“Wha—what are you doing?” she asks, alarmed.

“What does it look like I am doing?” he retorts, giving her a cocky grin before he settles between her legs.

 _Oh, God._ She must be filthy, dripping with his semen, and he’s going down on her _now_?

“Mine,” he murmurs between licks. He keeps working at her until she forgets her mortification and comes all over again, agreeing with him.

His, all his.

Hers, all hers.

**_._ **

A week later, the dreams start.

She awakens with sweat on her skin, blood on her fingers, and screams on her lips.

She awakens with prayers to gods she doesn’t believe in and curses for devils she doesn’t acknowledge.

They only get worse, and, after a while, she starts realizing something.

Noticing a pattern, she decides to research it.

Though, it can’t be, really.

Can it?

When the library confirms her worst suspicion, she feels shocked and betrayed.

Curling her hands into fists, she decides it’s time to have a conversation with a _beloved_ professor.

The lying son of a bitch.

**_._ **

She walks into his office and goes straight for the bookcase. She pushes the black journal like she has seen him do, but, instead of revealing the dorm, it tumbles to the ground, the pages falling open.

How odd; it’s entirely blank.

She picks it up to check, and, indeed, the pages are all unwritten. And then she notices. It _hums._ Just like the ring did. She has the bizarre urge to write in it, why—

The bookcase opens.

“Hermione?” he asks, surprised. “What are you doing here so late?” He takes the book from her and carefully places it back. The golden inscription reads, ‘T. M. Riddle.’ How odd. She hadn't noticed that before.

“There is a security,” he explains. “It can only be opened if it’s pushed the right way.”

Not bothering to reply, she whirls around, crosses the room, and slams her book on the desk.

His steps are careful, measured, when he follows her to look at the page she has laid open. When he sees what is written on it, his expression makes place for a derisive, amused one.

He isn’t even trying to deny it, _the bastard._

“I did wonder how long it would take you to figure it out,” he admits. “It has started, then?”

His face fills with joy as he reaches for her. She jumps away, flinching violently.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” she hisses. “Why?” Her voice _breaks._

He looks… not apologetic but something quite… near that? “I needed a way to be able to introduce you to the more enriching parts of magic, with or without your consent.”

“You needed a way to… And so, you put an alteration in the Animagus spell? To justify… _what_ , exactly?”

“I expected more of you, you know,” he muses, ignoring her question completely, “as my star pupil. Did I not say in my classes to never accept a magical spell from someone else without thoroughly checking it first because it could have been altered to do you harm? Not that this one will do you harm—like I would ever allow it—but I did say that. And you just… blindly repeated after me.”

“‘Blindly’…” she echoes. Then she screeches, “I _trusted_ you. I trusted you, and you… you betrayed me! And you… you’ve been corrupting me with dark magic!”

“Oh, my little Gryffindor. After all this time, and you still don’t know? One must be _willing_ to be blessed with dark magic. One must be open for it. And you… well, you were quite willing, were you not?”

He speaks of dark magic with near-reverence, and, at first, she scrunches up her nose until his words register. And she just—

She _lunges_ for him.

She lunges for him. She loses her control so much that she actually tries to attack him, and he—he just casually raises one hand, and she finds herself unable to move.

With another gesture, her wand flies away from her, and then he comes closer, closer still, tucking her hair behind her ear with her wand.

“Hermione, Hermione, my darling Hermione. Shall I prove it to you, how open you are to dark magic in comparison with others?”

“ _What?_ ” she starts asking.

He snaps his fingers. “Lippy.”

The tiny elf appears immediately, bowing deeply for him.

“What can Lippy do for Master?”

“Fetch me…” he hums, throwing a glance at Hermione, “Lavender Brown.”

“Remind me to teach you wandless magic, yes?” he says once Lippy vanishes, and Hermione sneers at him. He is so _not_ funny.

He chuckles. Then he turns around, and, using _her_ wand, starts putting up a whole lot of silencing and warding spells.

Hermione’s stomach turns. _Oh, God_. What is he even going to do to Lavender?

Right on cue, Lippy appears with an unconscious Lavender, throws the girl down, and leaves with a bow to her and Professor Riddle.

“Yes, Lippy and I bonded over shepherd’s pie.” He laughs. “Now, relax. I am only going to prove it to you. No harm will come to her. Well, not much.”

He runs a finger down Hermione's spine, and, when she shivers, he gives her a satisfied smirk. Then he points her wand at Lavender. “ _Rennervate_ . _Silencio._ ”

A horrified-looking Lavender locks accusing eyes with Hermione, and Tom chuckles and presses a butterfly kiss to her neck before moving swiftly away from Hermione and to Lavender, who tries to scramble away. But, with a flick of Tom’s fingers, Lavender is unable to move, as well.

“Tom,” Hermione whispers, “really, whatever you’re going to do—”

He doesn’t even listen to her. Instead, he has put the wand away, and he’s cupping his hands. And, in his hands…

She inhales sharply. In his hands, he’s holding _magic._ And how—but what—and is he—how is it even possible? But, really, it’s unmistakable. It pulses and waves, and it swirls and looks dark and ready to lash out.

“See?” Tom murmurs. “You see it, Hermione. You feel it. You smell it, too. I know you have often wondered what the spicy, alluring scent that you detect in this office is. This is it. It’s my magic. _She_ is not able to see or smell it. She is not as connected to it as you are. Not as _affined_. And look.”

He comes closer to her, and, horrified, Hermione watches how strands of _her_ magic join his as the air around her fizzles. A pleasant feeling overcomes her. She fights it, fights it, but… but what?

Moving to Lavender, he extends his hand. Enthralled, Hermione notices that white wisps withdraw as he comes closer, and the girl shuts her eyes tightly, as if in pain.

Tom’s voice is magnetic as he continues, “Do you want to know what happens if I touch her, Hermione? Do you want to _see_?”

“Tom…” Hermione whispers as Lavender whimpers—because she thinks she knows, and, _no_ , she does not want to see. “Please don’t.”

He pays her no attention. With his face so very concentrated, he’s holding himself back. Crouching as he extends his arm, and with visible force, he frees his pinkie and touches Lavender’s arm.

The girl _screams,_ the silencing charm broken. The magic Tom is sending into her is eating the wisps away, and she thrashes as if under the Cruciatus.

Tom pulls the magic away, and the scream ends abruptly with Lavender unconscious. Her arm bloody.

He stands up and comes closer to Hermione, his voice still magnetic. Always magnetic. “See? It would’ve devoured and killed her. What if it touches _you_ , my darling?”

“No, no, please,” Hermione sobs, but Tom only smirks and presses the whole ball into her chest.

“Ah!” she exclaims, her knees buckling, her eyes falling shut. The torches in the office flicker and go out. Tom catches her as she falls. She clutches him as if he’s the last solid structure in the world. The magic swirls around and around them, faster, faster. It’s consuming her, this sensation, too much, too much and yet not enough.

Distantly, she differentiates Tom’s anxious face, notices his magic leaving her, being called back, his panicked voice as he yells her name again and again—“Hermione, _Hermione_!”—but all she can do is hold on. The world is turning, and, when she closes her eyes, it becomes worse, a sour taste in her mouth. Turning, turning, and she can’t, she can’t—

She vomits.

She blacks out.

**_._ **

She’s feeling good. She’s feeling _very_ good. There is a hand stroking her hair, and she’s comfortable, snuggled deep into a warm blanket on a soft bed.

It takes her a moment to remember the ‘where’ and the ‘how’ of her situation, but, when she does, she bolts upright and locks her accusing eyes with To—Profe—Riddle.

He’s unfazed, laying on his side, relaxed and without a shirt, and… Oh, _oh._

“Ho—” She means to ask how long she was out, but her voice croaks horribly. She feels a sudden headache and nausea come up.

“Just for the night,” he answers her unspoken question as he hands her a glass of water. Then he adds, “Lavender Brown is fine, sleeping soundly and with no recollection of yesterday’s events.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at him as she gulps down her water. She then stands up from the bed without a word and moves to the door. He doesn’t make a sound, and, for a moment, she dares to hope… to no avail.

The door is locked.

“You didn’t think I would just let you go, did you?”

“One can dare to hope, Professor,” she says, and her voice is all ice.

“Of course,” he concedes easily, “but, you see, we both have a problem.”

“‘ _We_ ’?!” Her voice is a screech.

He shushes her. “Yes, _we_ have a problem. I could lose my job, and you could get expelled.”

“I hardly doubt I’d get ex—”

“—Lavender, darling? And the unregistered Animagus thing—plus, the sex with your teacher.”

“Something that will _never_ happen again,” she hisses.

He hums, unimpressed. “I propose an agreement.”

“…I am listening.” She draws it out, says it slowly.

“An… altered Unbreakable Vow. We both protect each other.”

“Why would I ever trust you and any alteration you make again? I may be dumb, but I am not _stupid_ , you know.”

“You’ve never been either, Hermione,” he says, his eyes flashing with something dangerous.

She crosses her arms.

He sighs. “A magical contract, then. We both state our terms, and we compromise.”

After two hours of trying to be a Slytherin, Hermione signs, leaves, and is determined to never see him again.

Part of the contract is exactly that: He does not have the right to seek her out, except for academic purposes. Unless she seeks him out first. The first part will _definitely_ never happen again.

And, since they are in a _school_ , she is sure the second will never happen, either.

**_._ **

Hermione spends her days avoiding Tom Riddle, both ignoring the persistent dreams and aches and researching the altered spell.

But, for once, the library disappoints her terribly.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, _nothing._

So, one night, she sneaks into the Restricted Section.

She has only forgotten one tiny detail: Old curses usually tend to dislike muggleborns.

It’s a night after the exams that she makes the terrible mistake of touching a cursed book.

Tom finds her, carries her to his room, and saves her, ignoring her incoherent mumbles about being left alone.

When she’s all healed up again, she notices that she didn’t dream or have sweaty palms and headaches _again_.

That same pattern was the one that had helped her make the discovery of the altered spell.

He offers her a smirk when he sees the (probably) obvious thoughts written all over her face and opens the door with a mockingly chivalrous bow.

His parting words haunt her all summer long.

_“You can try to stay away all you want, darling, but, eventually, you’ll come running back to me anyway.”_

_._

He opens the door, and she wants to slap the smug expression right off his face.

“Hermione?” he asks, but it’s not a question at all. It’s ironic and cruel and _all_ Tom.

How did she never notice that side of him before?

And how many times had she made this trip, feverish with desire, just managing to hold herself back and turn away before she knocked? But… she can’t handle it anymore.

When he notices her distressed state, her ruffled appearance, his face twists with concern. He brings her inside and inspects her, going over her once, twice.

“Has it affected you that much?” he asks softly before pulling her closer. “I told you that you would need me, didn’t I?”

She shudders in his embrace but doesn’t try to get away anymore.

_(Somewhere deep down, she knows he’s right.)_

She also knows he is dark, knows she should run away as fast as she can. She knows that he has gotten her _exactly_ where he wants her to be, addicted to his magic and practically his little slave. And this, the way he’s kissing and touching her, bending her over the couch, running the head of his cock up and down to collect moisture before driving in—the way his right hand is fingering her clit just so, while the left is sending delicious jolts of dark magic into her skin—

She needs it like she needs to breathe.

**_._ **

“What do you mean, ‘ _No_ ’?” she asks, incredulous.

“I think you should start growing and using your own magic instead of feeding from mine the entire time, my little Gryffindor.” He flicks her nose gently, lightly, as if she’s a little girl and reaches back to offer her a large tome.

“What happened to, ‘Ten points to Gryffindor for firmly standing by what you believe is right’?”

“I am not forcing you, am I, Hermione? In fact, I have never forced _anything_ on you, have I?”

She snorts.

“That agreement was for both of our benefit, as you well know. And this… Well, let’s call it ‘plucking the fruits of my investments.’ Now, go. When you finish reading it, we can resume our classes. And all of our _other_ activities.”

**_._ **

“Is this why you made me read this book, Tom?”

He bends forward to inspect it, but she slams it shut, shoving it into his face. One pale hand grips the book and the other twists her wrists together, pulling her toward him.

“I don’t appreciate the lack of respect you’ve been showing me recently, Hermione. I assure you, I have been quite the gentleman with you. Before you even protest—”

Under his burning glare, she slowly closes her mouth.

“—I can assure you, you do _not_ want to find out what it would be like if I behaved otherwise, not just what you perceive as ‘not gentlemanly.’”

Riddle lets go of her, and she rubs her wrists.

“As for the book, yes, I was intrigued about your opinion on the theme because I value your opinion greatly, Hermione, and your intelligence even more. But, since I know we don’t really discuss much anymore—” He holds up a finger, and she rolls her eyes, closing her mouth again. He smirks. “—I thought this to be the only way.”

“But there’s more. You want me to agree.”

“‘Agree’?”

“Perform one with you.”

He smiles slowly. Now, she finds it sinister rather than charming.

“It certainly appeals to me, yes, but I’ve said so before. I will never force you to do something you don’t want to.”

She sighs. “No, just persuade me and manipulate me. Make me dependent on you. Hurt a classmate and give me no way out—and now a _bonding ritual?_ ”

He approaches her, takes her face between his hands, and kisses her.

It’s a slow kiss, gentle. His thumbs stroke her cheekbones, and she feels a surge of sadness and joy at the same time—he has never been this kind with her before.

“I’m stuck with you either way, right?” she asks when he pulls back.

He hums, smiles, and kisses her again.

**_._ **

_I’m stuck with you either way, right?_

But Hermione also had something else in mind. This way, she could control him. This way, she could make them both dependent on each other, instead of just her on him.

She had searched and searched. Read every book on the subject. They were all very clear: Once exposed to that kind of magic there is no going back. She could force herself to abstain, but then she would be like a drug addict—craving for more and stopping at nothing to get it. Apparently, the need just becomes worse. Apparently, there’s no way to get used to the absence.

So, a bond wouldn’t be that bad, would it? Maybe, if she found a way to break it, she could make only him dependent. Or she could just stick with it. Hermione wasn’t proud to admit it, but she—

Maybe she loved him.

Maybe he loved her.

Maybe she was simply _delusional._

But—but, this way, she could figure out his identity, his ‘not gentlemanly side.’ This way, she could learn his plans.

“I choose the ritual,” she had said, and he had shrugged.

“Do whatever you like, darling.” He smirked. “Let’s just not wait until we consummate it.”

And, with that, no speech had been required for the next few hours.

**_._ **

He was behaving so odd lately. Ever since they performed the bond. He kissed her on her cheeks, lips, and forehead. He was gentle, stroking her hand with his thumb and smiling softly every time their eyes met.

He’s like a love-struck schoolboy, and she wonders if it’s a side effect or if it’s because he feels so fulfilled and achieved. As if she’s a goal he has finally obtained.

Hermione lays awake in bed at nights—when she’s alone, that is—and tries to piece the puzzle together. She’s a highly logical person, and she feels as if she has missed puzzle pieces in the story. Nothing makes sense. The private lessons, the alteration in the spell. The way it had been activated with sex. The magic connection. The way he started seeking her out from the moment they met… like the Halloween conversation—

_The Halloween conversation._

She bolts upright.

What had he told her, again? A girl died fifty years ago. But Hermione researched it then, and she never found that information. She simply assumed it was something teachers were told, but, _but_ —

She wondered since the Animagus spell _how_ he’d been able to alter it. It couldn’t have been nonverbally because he had been speaking the whole time, but the _hissing_ sounds.

His reference to Parseltongue when they were speaking about Divination?

The Heir of Slytherin. _Slytherin._ The snake as an emblem. The Heir. Slytherin was a Parseltongue. A very rare gift.

But… that girl died _fifty_ years ago. However had he managed that? He would have to be practically immortal… or a _time traveler._

The time turner. A replica..?

The wheels were spinning, spinning in her head. It couldn’t be, really, but, at the same time… it very well could.

Maybe he’s immortal, too. She snorted, some sort of panicked amusement coming up. But, no, there were only two ways to become immortal: the Philosopher’s Stone and unicorn blood… _and_ Horcruxes.

It was a passage in his book, was it not? The vilest magic, splitting the soul, the properties of the objects chosen changed—

She closes her eyes and breathes in, out, in wheezing breaths. It hurts. Her lungs feel like they’re on the verge of collapsing, but, but—

A Horcrux emits magic.

Dark magic.

The same magic its owner has. Of course. One soul.

And the emission... a kind of _humming._

The journal—diary. The ring when it had gotten snagged in her fur.

 _The connection_ he seemed so amused about.

Oh, Merlin. Oh, God. Oh, _fuck._

Hermione is practically married to a murderer. Worse—bound. To a **_Time-travelling murderer._ **

She doesn’t close an eye that night, trying to stay calm and think of a way out.

Morning light brings clarity, and, twisting the simple but elegant band on her finger, she knows, with grim determination, what she must do.

It’s the first time she has felt like a Gryffindor. How ironic.

**_._ **

“You really are the smartest witch of your age, Hermione,” he says in wonder after she confronts him, “though, I have to admit, I hoped you would figure it out. Yes, it’s true. I am a time traveler, I killed a couple of people, and I came here with a mission— _you_.”

“But why would you even—why _me_?” she whispers, desperate to know the answer. “Why am I so… valuable?”

“Oh, Hermione, there’s so much you don’t know. I changed your timeline drastically, you know. You would’ve been in a relationship with Ronald Weasley and a best friend of Harry Potter—Harry Potter, the boy who lived. The boy destined to end Lord Voldemort.”

“What… Who?”

“Me,” he simply says. “The person I was destined to become—a Dark Lord. But, you see, the future me visited me in my time and handed me a backwards time turner to use when I was ready. He gave me some simple instructions: Don’t frame Hagrid for opening the Chamber of Secrets, don’t make more than two Horcruxes, and find a girl, preferably while she’s still young, to help her to reach her true potential—and don’t let her, let _you_ , get away.

“I admit, I was surprised. A mudblood? But, apparently, you were the key to Potter defeating me. My future self discovered that when he killed Snape, a person he thought to be faithful, but, by then, it was too late. Luckily, I always have a back-up plan, so he already had the means to travel back and warn me. I successfully finished my Hogwarts education, travelled a year to learn everything I could about dark magic, and then, when I turned nineteen, I came to the future.

“I applied here at Hogwarts. Dumbledore believed my tale about the accident, though he always remained suspicious, and since I had nowhere else to go, he offered me the job. Your first professor died in a _very_ tragic accident, you see. Then all that was left was meeting you. Draco Malfoy turned out to be incredibly helpful, as I met you on a day you were carrying such an advanced book with you, and… well, you know how the story goes, don’t you, darling?”

“No. I…” She shakes her head, backing away from him slowly. Composing herself, she uses the position he taught her. She fakes confidence and demands, “So, what are your plans, then? Making more Horcruxes? Conquering the world and killing everyone in your path?”

He shrugs, his grin widening. He knows her too well.

But not enough.

“I won’t let you.” She shrugs as if it’s a natural response. Because it is. She is Hermione Granger, and she is brave. She is a Gryffindor. “I won’t let you get away with it.”

“And how will you stop me?” He chuckles. “We are bound, remember?”

“Exactly.” She holds up her right hand, the ring catching the sunlight. With sadness in her gaze, she says seriously, “I am prepared to die, Tom.”

He clicks his tongue, takes her raised hand, and pulls her toward him. “My darling Hermione, ever the Gryffindor. Yes, it’s true. I cannot live if you die, and you cannot live if _I_ die. But it also works the other way around. You cannot die as long as I live, and I cannot die as long as _you_ live. And, since we swapped a bit of our souls during the ceremony, essentially making us _each other’s_ Horcrux… it’s like a circle, see, Hermione? With no beginning and no ending.”

At her shocked gaze, he chuckles. “I _am_ a Slytherin, Hermione. Quite literally, like you deduced. Ingenious, is it not?”

She can’t find the strength to retort. Instead, she simply slumps against him, suddenly tired, and wonders how she will ever fix this.

“I did promise you ‘forever,’ did I not?” And twirling the band on her fourth finger, he tips her chin up and kisses her gently.

_Fin_


End file.
